Can I Never Be Good Enough?
by Believe4Ever
Summary: I've never been appreciated. All through my life I was just scrap. Underappreciated. Replaceable. Once I recall was in kindergarten when we had been making faces out of macaroni on the paper plates. I had made mine to be of my teacher. She had thanked me when I gave it to her but I saw her throw it out after class. And now that I'm an adult they don't hide when they throw it out.


**So, since I had a small boost of inspiration after reading a fantastic story on here, but not enough inspiration to write another chapter for my other stories on hiatus, I wrote this drabble about Anderson (yes, the prat Anderson.)**

**It has been joked around by the creators of Sherlock that Anderson's first name was Sylvia or Moira but since it has not been confirmed I'll just be using the name of the actor, which is Jonathan. I hope you enjoy this story. Somehow the plot just…came to me. Perhaps I wanted Anderson to be shown in a new light. I'm not sure. **

**Another thing, Star Trek is brought up briefly in part of the story. And Sherlock, basically, insults all Trekkies out there. I myself enjoy Star Trek so I do not hate on the Trekkies out there. I'm simply writing how Sherlock would view the Star Trek community in the given scenario.**

**Well, I hope you enjoy and reviews are most appreciated.**

* * *

"Jonathan!"

I kept my eyes squeezed shut and pulled the covers over my head. I wanted to draw back into the darkness and block out that voice. That snarky, narcissistic, overbearing voice that I've had to deal with for a good many years.

"Jonathan Sylvia Anderson, get out of bed this instant!"

Who did she think she was? My mother? Ridiculous. I could hardly believe I had fallen in love with her. Not only that, but I'd married her. I'd married this beast of a woman named Sheila. How? Why? What was the _point? _All she did was command and order and was just—just—

My covers were wrenched back and sunlight filtered in from the window, suddenly washing over my body and turning the black cocoon into a strange orange through my eyelids. I slowly opened one eye to find my wife glowering over me, hands on her wide hips and her violent eyes screaming with murderous intent.

Well, perhaps that's not quite true. But that's how I imagine it.

"Get up," she growled as she pulled back the rest of the sheets.

The cold air of the house chewed at my exposed chest and I gave a moan as I turned over. She kept the house frozen, like an ice cube. Her and her 'hot flashes' that seemed to plague her worse than the common cold on all of Europe.

"I don't go into work for another few hours," I mumbled, annoyed, as I glanced over at the bedside clock. She was always getting up early, too. The early bird catches the worm but the crow up before dawn sleep deprives her husband.

"I don't care. You still have to organize the bookshelves."

"I did yesterday."

"No, you sorted them by author. Only by author. You forget how you have to organize each book per author in alphabetical and by series. Honestly, you're ridiculous. It's not good enough!"

She stormed out of our bedroom as I stared up at the ceiling. Not good enough. Never good enough. I'm always wrong, in some way. At work, at home, in the everyday world. Not good enough; ever.

I rolled out of bed and stood, stretching. I knew if I wasn't out of the bedroom in five minutes she'd come back and just yell at me again about how I'm lazy beyond belief. I pulled out a simple pair of slacks, my white button up shirt and the black jacket to wear over it. When I was finished dressing, I walked out to the kitchen to get some breakfast. Before I could even reach the refrigerator to pour some milk my wife was before me.

"Not until you finish your job," she ordered.

"I can't even have breakfast?"

"Absolutely not."

I sucked in a deep breath, trying to control the usual anger that surged through me. It was better than any adrenaline, and woke me up faster than any amount of caffeine. "You know what? I can't. I have to go to work."

I snatched up my wallet from the kitchen table—where I had left it the night previous after our dull date—before she could move toward it and I began walking briskly toward the front door.

"You said you weren't to go to work for another few hours!" she screeched after me. I heard her heels click on the floor as she followed. I reached the door and opened it, not even risking a glance back.

"I just remembered that I have a job to help Lestrade with. I'll be back tonight!"

With that I closed the door, in her face no less, and sprinted down the street. I must have looked strange, a grown man running down the pavement as if he were being chased by bullies. I must have looked just as I did when I was in junior high school, when Russell Brown and his gang had chased me through the neighborhood. My right cheekbone ached at the memory.

I arrived at the station not long after, and I stood outside the front door for a moment, panting and sweating. I hadn't stopped running the whole way, with some part of me fearing she had simply sped right after me. Of course, she hadn't. That fat lazy woman would never go after me for something as trivial as the bookshelves.

In fact, she'd never go after me at all.

When my breathing had steadied and I'd wiped the sweat from my forehead with my sleeve, I strode inside. There weren't many officers in at this hour, but I did spot Greg Lestrade in his office, going over some papers. Probably wrapping up some paperwork for the murder that the Freak solved a couple days ago.

That Freak.

Even thinking about him sent an uneasy shiver up my spine. I pushed him from my mind and instead walked into Lestrade's office. "Good morning, Greg."

The DI glanced up with a touch of surprise. "Anderson. What are you doing here so early?"

"I was in the mood," I half lied. Although, it was true that I'd rather work than be home organizing the bookshelves with my wife complaining over my shoulder like a backseat driver. A backseat organizer. "What would you like me to do?"

"I don't really have anything for you to do, Anderson . . . You can review some of the case files for anything we may have missed?"

My lips pursed. Not exactly something I wanted to do. But he was correct; there really wasn't anything that he could've had for me. We didn't have any fresh bodies I could inspect for him or anything. And even if there were, he probably would call the Freak right away. He wouldn't even wait until we _needed _him.

The station had been nice and quiet for a few hours. I had finished going through the files and had been talking to Sally—oh, sweet Sally, her beautiful features and kind personality; the only person to really treat me like _me_—when the _Freak _showed up.

"Lestrade, I need a case!" Sherlock shouted as he barged into the station. I rolled my eyes and I heard Sally mutter something under her breath, though I couldn't make out what.

"We can't just hand you case files on a silver platter whenever you want," I sneered. He simply glanced my way with an annoyed glint in his eyes.

"Nobody asked for your opinion, Anderson, nor did we want to hear your elastic voice twang with stupidity. If you wouldn't mind, would you please leave the room until I have finished discussing what I may with Lestrade? I do enjoy keeping my IQ at the level it's placed."

My jaw fell agape, just a bit, before I closed it once more and clenched my jaw. His little pet, which followed him everywhere, actually had to hold back a laugh. A _laugh. _What, so insulting someone qualifies for humor these days?

I didn't move from my spot by Sally's desk as the Freak barged into Lestrade's office and began talking to him. It was hard to hear outside of the boxed office, but from looking through the windows that led into the office, the Freak seemed pretty bossy.

I honestly don't understand why Greg put up with that man. He was arrogant, full of himself, and generally _twisted_. He enjoyed finding dead bodies, he enjoyed nearly dying, he just _enjoyed it. _This man should be locked up! He's a bloody psychopath!

'High functioning sociopath' he'd say in correction. Always correcting me. Correcting everyone.

But there's no _difference _between a psychopath and a sociopath! _They mean the same thing! _And yet no one seems to question him about it. No one cares. No one, that is, except me and Sally. We are the only ones that call him out about his freakish abilities, and how he seems to know everything about a person from the way they walk. God knows he did about me.

It was five minutes later that Lestrade got a phone call and came out, calling for the usual team to come with him. Body had just been pulled out of the Thames, stripped of identification—as well as nearly all of his clothing—and strange markings on his body. The Freak was grinning, just positively giddy, and I exchanged an annoyed look with Sally. Yet another grueling day in the field.

It turned out the strange markings seemed to simply be tattoos. Strange tattoos, though. They looked a lot like the Vulcan language from Star Trek, which I used to watch reruns of as a child.

Sherlock was crouched over the man already, inspecting every part of his body. The cadaver didn't look particularly old enough to be a Star Trek fan—mid twenties, it would seem—but then again, there have been teenagers known to go to Star Trek conventions. And I knew that the Freak wouldn't know anything about Star Trek, let alone that it may be Vulcan.

"Star Trek," I finally piped up, interrupting the Freak's inspection.

"What?" I barely heard him mutter.

"Those tattoos look like the Vulcan language from Star Trek. He must be a fan, and an obsessed one at that."

The Freak stared at me like I was a complete moron. "Anderson, you truly do say the stupidest of things."

"I'm pointing out what I observe."

"No, you see. You're seeing. Not observing. Everything you said in that sentence is ludicrous. First off, these are not tattoos. These were drawn on with permanent marker. He has been in the Thames for approximately a day and a half and so of course the markings wouldn't be washed away, as permanent marker isn't washed away by water."

My teeth began to grind against one another. Already the Freak was being full of himself. His superiority complex was driving me mad! And everyone else was simply listening—the pet was even taking some notes! How can they stand to _listen _to him?

"Secondly, a man this age wouldn't be so obsessed with Star Trek, as it is obvious he has a _life _to attend to. He is in good shape, his hand has an engagement ring. No sign of being overly obsessed with a cult television show whose fans are utterly insane."

Now he was just being ridiculous. He claims he knows about the community. I would bet my life he'd never seen a single episode. How would he know anything about it? How could he claim to be such an expert on knowing whether someone watched a certain _television show _just based on whether he was in shape or in a relationship? How preposterous was that? And his voice. God, his _voice! _Nagging and picking and yelling and complaining just like my wife! I can't escape her for even one day!

"Honestly, Anderson, you are being even stupider than you typically are which certainly is saying something as your very presence, without you bringing up such transparent points, can drain my mind of intelligent thoughts. Furthermore—"

"Shut up, Sheila!" I cried. The whole team, the Freak and his pet included, looked up with questioning eyes.

"What did you just call me?" Sherlock asked in a low voice.

I silently gulped back my heart-stopping embarrassment and answered in what I hoped was an exasperated tone, "My words slipped. Perhaps I just think of you as an annoying woman with the way you carry on so long?"

I silently thanked God that Sally wasn't in the room at this point. She would be giving me the darkest look in the world if she'd heard a comment like that come out of my mouth.

"Just shut up and let me think," Sherlock growled as he went back to looking over the body. My teeth clamped over my tongue so hard I thought I'd taste blood. It certainly took effort not to spit insults right back at him. How could the others just _stand there _while he insulted me like that?

The Freak left as soon as he'd finished telling Lestrade all he could figure out. As I was getting ready to do my own inspection, to do my _proper job, _Greg murmured to me, "Don't be so rude to him next time."

The nerve of him! Saying _I _was rude to _him?_

"Are you joking?" I cried, not caring about my volume of voice.

"No, I am not. He has a simple job, and that is to tell me what he can about the body."

"I thought that was _my _job."

"It is. But he can give us things that we can't normally pick up on. If he gets insulted he may not want to come back and that will be trouble for us."

"You know he'll always be back. He's too fixed on the job to go away because I hurt his feelings once in a while. I never hurt his feelings, in fact, and you know that!"

Greg gave me a stern glare. "Just do your job, Anderson. Do it good enough."

Good enough.

_Good enough._

Of course, because I never try to do my job well enough unless I'm told to. At anything.

Never.

It was evening by the time I was able to get out of work. I went to Sally's place with her and when we got there we sat on the couch, just the two of us. For a while neither of us said anything and we just drank in the quiet of her apartment. We did this nearly every day after work. After having to be with the Freak and the general noisiness of the station, it was nice to have utter silence around us.

Finally I let out a sigh and let go of her hand, standing up.

"Where are you going?" she asked, eyes following me.

"Nowhere," I muttered as I went to her kitchen. I poured myself a glass of water and gulped it down. She followed me and leaned against the doorframe.

"Are you alright, Jonathan? You seem very . . . strung up."

"Of course I'm strung up!" My voice practically came out as a scream and she flinched. I sighed and set the glass down. "I'm sorry."

"What's wrong? You didn't seem so tense at work." She walked over to me.

"It's that idiot Sherlock!" My grip tightened around the glass. "It's my brutal unruly wife! It's the fact that no one takes me seriously at my _own job!_ No one believes I can do anything right, not even Greg! They all believe that _freak _is just phenomenal!"

"But you and I know he's not."

"Exactly! Just you and I. He annoys everyone at the Yard but you and I are the only ones who actually know he's not good for anyone! We both know what he _really is._ Yet no one listens. My wife treats me like an idiot as well!" My teeth were literally grinding against each other as I tried to take in deep breaths. I had had _enough _with everyone around me! I drew in a deep breath and shouted, "I am simply _not good enough _for _anyone._"

"Jon—"

I cut her off by slamming the glass back down onto the counter, the noise ear-shattering, but luckily the glass didn't break. I released it and stormed back into the living room, pacing to alleviate my anger, which was, unfortunately, not working.

"Nothing I ever do is good enough for _Sheila. _Nothing I do at work is ever good enough for _Greg. _My intellect is never good enough for _Sherlock. _I'm just never _good enough!_"

Sally grabbed my arm and turned me around. Her hands planted onto my shoulders and stopped me from continuing to pace. Her hand reached up and cupped my cheek gently, softly, comfortingly.

"You're good enough for me, Jonathan," she murmured. A ghost of a smile played on my lips. She was the one thing I had going for me. She was the one person that I could confide in and truly be myself. And she brought out the best in me as well.

I let out a breath. "Thank you," I whispered, taking her other hand.

The rest of the evening proceeded with gentle kisses, cuddling, and watching reruns on the tellie. As I was giving her a kiss goodbye she asked me once again when I was going to break it off with my wife and I promised her it would be soon.

It was very dark by the time the taxi pulled up to my house. I paid the late-night driver and went inside. All of the lights were off—typical of Sheila to not want to offer me light to see where I was going when I got home late. I stumbled until I found the stairs and climbed them. I knew the house well enough to get around without needing a light. I didn't want to wake her up from her sleep. She'd always hated it when I got home late.

I found our bedroom and by then my eyes had adjusted relatively well to the darkness. I saw her large lumpy form on the mattress and I suppressed my depressed sigh at the sight of her. I stripped down to my boxers and tossed the old garments into the clothes hamper before silently crawling in to bed. I settled under the covers, feeling the sweet warmth of the sheets counteracting the freezing air.

For a while, I laid there and thought to myself, staring at the shapes lacing the ceiling made from the cracks. Why didn't I leave Sheila? Why didn't I hire a divorce attorney and get her out of my life like I know I should? Why didn't I go up to Sherlock and tell him exactly what was on my mind? Why didn't I quit and get some other job, one I enjoy doing, one where I will actually be appreciated for who I am? Why did I have to hide all of this stupid insecurity and anger behind a life of sneers and sarcastic remarks?

The answer was simple and very clear to me as it played through my head. I closed my eyes and turned over, before opening them once more and staring at the glowing red numbers of my alarm clock which read 11:56.

I wasn't good enough. I'd never be good enough. I would never be brave enough to stand up to my wife. I would never have the courage to hire a divorce attorney. I would never be so daring as to tell off Sherlock and expose him for what he truly is, a bully. I would never be confident enough to hand in my resume and go on the hunt for another job.

I continued to stare at my clock until the numbers had flicked to read 12:00. Yet another day and still I have not changed. My eyelids slowly slid shut and I wished once again that I would wake up from this nightmare.

But I wouldn't wake up. It won't be any different than from when I fell into my slumber. It'll never be the fantastical fantasy I dream about whenever I close my eyes.

It will never be good enough.

And neither will I.


End file.
